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"Fucking hell." Mav groaned into the toilet bowl, arm pressed against the cool porcelain, germs be damned. Ice was a neat freak anyway—Mav wouldn't put it past him to disinfect the toilet weekly or something along those lines.
Another pulse of dull, panging pain gripped the muscles of his lower back, and with it rose a wave of nausea that had him biting his lower lip hard in an attempt to keep from vomiting again. He'd already thrown up all of his breakfast and felt entirely too sick to even think about fixing something for lunch.
The day had started out normally: Ice's alarm ringing obnoxiously at six a.m. on the dot, rousing Mav rudely from what had been quite a nice dream and prompting Ice to press a goodbye kiss to Mav's barely-awake forehead before changing to head out. Maverick had dozed for a little while longer before making his way to the bathroom. There he had discovered a bright red stain in his boxers: an omen of doom.
As if triggered by his awareness, cramps had begun whispering along his lower back and stomach, crescendoing quickly until it was a snarling ache that left his insides aching by late morning. It was then that the nausea started.
His periods were bad, had been ever since he was a child, but they very rarely got this bad—painful to the point of taking him out of commission entirely. He had planned to go and see Carole and Bradley today and maybe take the kid out to the park, but now? He wasn't even sure if he'd survive long enough to see Ice come home.
A shudder wracked his body and his teeth chattered against each other despite the sweat that had soaked right through his thin t-shirt. He groaned again. Even the thought of getting up to drink a glass of water and change the tampon he was surely going to bleed through any minute now seemed an insurmountable task.
Vaguely, he registered what sounded like his phone's ringtone, muffled through the walls, but he'd left it in the bedroom at some point and couldn't find it in himself to check who was calling. It was probably another scam anyway—he'd been getting an inconveniently large number of those lately, to the chagrin of both him and Ice (they'd been interrupted mid-makeout session one too many times by someone from Pennsylvania asking to collect outstanding debts on Mav's nonexistent car). Instead, he concentrated on steadying his breathing, wishing more than anything that the ibuprofen he had taken an hour or so ago would start working.
Seconds dragged into minutes, and at some point Mav must have fallen asleep, limp and miserable on the tile floor, because the next thing he knew, the bathroom door was slamming open, jolting him back to consciousness. A very unpleasant consciousness, to be specific. His little nap on the hard tile hadn’t done him any good. On the contrary—now, not only was he feeling the effects of the tantrum his uterus was throwing inside his body, his joints were protesting the time they’d spent pressed against the cold, unyielding stone.
"What the hell? Maverick. Pete—fuck.” It was Ice’s voice, laced with shock and fear. That was understandable, he guessed through a fog of pain and disorientation. Ice had probably walked into a dark house, which was unusual enough, and then happened upon Maverick, splayed out unconscious on the bathroom floor. If the roles had been reversed, Maverick would be frantic with worry.
Suddenly, there was a large, warm hand on his back, and he could see Ice’s legs, kneeling on the floor beside him out of the corner of his eye. “Pete. Talk to me, Maverick. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Pete managed a groan. Now that he was fully awake, he could feel slick dampness in his underwear: the predicted leak had begun sometime while he was knocked out on the floor. “...Ice.”
Ice’s hand was petting along his back, feather-light and hesitant, unsure. “Yeah, babe?”
Babe. Now there was something. Ice only ever called him pet names like that—baby, darling, the occasional mój drogi that never failed to soften Mav up—when he was feeling sappy, worried, or talking about something serious. “...Urgh.”
“You gotta tell me what’s up, Pete.” Maverick could tell that Ice was trying to stay calm, but it was all too easy to hear the barely restrained panic in Ice’s voice, especially after knowing the man for so long. Only a select few people in Tom Kazansky’s life got the privilege of seeing past the ice-cold facade he’d so carefully crafted since childhood, and every day Mav continued to be awed by the depth of Ice’s tediously-hidden psyche.
That was beside the point, though. The point was that he was about to throw up again, and also there was definitely blood on the tile beneath him.
Hauling himself upright with strength he hadn’t known he had left, Mav retched weakly into the toilet bowl, spitting out mucusy bile that coated his throat and mouth in an unpleasant, bitter film. “Fuck, Mav,” Ice cursed again, hand still rubbing Pete’s back, firmer now. “Are you sick? You were fine this morning.”
Maverick wiped his mouth, smacking his lips and wincing at the foul taste. “Not sick,” he rasped. The vomiting was really doing a number on his voice. “Just bleeding out.”
At first, Ice furrowed his eyebrows at Mav’s euphemism but caught on quickly, understanding and sympathy dawning on his face. “Oh,” he said, “why didn’t you just say so?”
Mav grunted unhelpfully in response.
“Can you get up? That can’t be comfortable.” Ice had posed it as a question, but he was already slotting his arms under Mav’s as he spoke, preparing to lift up the smaller man.
“Wait,” Mav protested weakly, but it was too late. Ice hoisted him up easily, like a house cat sitting in an inconvenient position. Usually, Maverick would be bothered by the reminder of his less-than-average stature, but at this point, he was much too uncomfortable to care. What he was worried about was the smear of blood on the bathroom tile, right where he had been passed out for the afternoon. “...Fuck. Sorry,” he whimpered miserably, bracing himself for Ice’s reaction.
“Don’t apologize,” Ice said matter-of-factly. He slid an arm under to support Mav’s legs and the other under his shoulders, carrying him bridal style, not shying away even when Mav was sure his bloody clothes were staining Ice’s shirt. He would be more embarrassed, but the cramping in his lower stomach and back made it quite hard to think about anything else. “It’s not like it’s your fault.”
Something in Pete’s chest warmed at the confident, unwavering way that Ice was approaching this. He didn’t flinch away, even when Pete revealed the…mess he’d made on the bathroom floor, and was even going out of his way to reassure him that it wasn’t a problem.
God, Maverick was lucky to have this man.
Half-unconsciously, Maverick whimpered through gritted teeth at a particularly sharp stab of pain that tore through him unceremoniously.
“Pete? Did I hurt you?” Ice stopped moving abruptly, still as a statue. “Should I put you down?”
“No,” gasped Mav, breathing through the pain. “Just…hurts.”
Pressed against Ice’s chest, he heard the other man breathe in, then out, like he was trying to decide his next course of action. “It’s okay,” Mav told him faintly. He felt Ice nod, and then they were moving again.
“You need a change of clothes, right?” Ice asked, absentmindedly petting at Maverick’s nape as he carried him down the hall to their bedroom. It felt unreasonably good, especially in contrast to the pain tearing brutally at his insides, and all Mav could manage was a vague murmur of assent. “Tampon? Or pad?” Ice nudged open the door to the master bedroom, then entered the master bath, depositing Mav gently on the toilet.
Okay, this was getting a little awkward. Not that Mav wasn’t charmed by Ice’s extensive knowledge and lack of hesitancy in dealing with periods—he assumed it was the result of growing up with two women in the house—but he was weird about his periods around other people in general. Not only did it make him feel like less of a man, even with the most supportive people, but it was at these times that he was most vulnerable: disoriented, in pain, and dysphoric, with significantly impaired abilities to regulate his already-volatile emotions.
But Ice was being so fucking gentle and, well, very nearly perfect in every way. And Maverick was in no position to reject his assistance.
“Mav?” Ice prodded gently after a couple of response-free seconds. “You okay?”
Maverick puffed out a sigh. “Um. Tampon.” His ears burned with embarrassment despite knowing, logically, that there really nothing to be ashamed of. Ice was the one who had brought the question up in the first place, and even if he was uncomfortable, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it.
“Got it.” Ice turned swiftly on his heel and squatted down to rummage through the cabinets, emerging after a brief moment victorious with a plainly wrapped tampon in hand. Mav didn’t stop to think about how Ice knew about his not-really-officially-secret-but-still-hidden-away stash of period products and took the proffered tampon. “I’ll go get you a change of clothes,” Ice said easily, and made himself scarce, giving Mav the opportunity to clean himself up a little.
It was slow going, with Mav doubling over and breathing through gritted teeth every thirty seconds as his muscles spasmed and contracted painfully, but eventually, he succeeded in changing out the tampon and was curled up miserably against the raised toilet lid when Ice returned carrying an armful of clothing. He peeked out over his folded arms when he heard Ice shuffling into the room and immediately zeroed in on a familiar swathe of fabric: Ice’s Academy sweatshirt.
Immediately, Mav was reaching out for it, making grabby hands that had Ice chuckling lowly. “Yeah, yeah, I know you like it. You’re always stealing it. Didn’t think I noticed?”
Mav glared indignantly at him with no heat. Ice crossed the remaining space in between them in two long, competent strides—if Mav hadn’t been in so much pain, he would have found it unbearably sexy—and, to Mav’s surprise, began easing him out of his sweat-soaked t-shirt.
Gently, almost painfully so, Ice helped Mav get dressed, patiently waiting out the moments when Mav became essentially paralyzed with pain. He didn’t flinch at the sight of Mav’s blood-soaked pants and underwear, merely folded them up and placed them aside before leading Mav, swimming in Ice’s comfortably worn-down Academy sweatshirt and some old basketball shorts, back into the bedroom.
When Mav was tucked thoroughly in, with pillows on all sides, a fluffy blanket pulled up to his chin, and painkillers and a hot water bottle within arm’s reach, Ice got up to leave the room.
“No,” and Mav absolutely did not whine; he would never. It was more of a dignified oration. “Are you leaving?” Please don’t, he added silently, trying to communicate through his eyes without having to say it out loud.
“Just for a second,” Ice reassured him calmly. “I gotta clean up a little,” Mav’s face flushed, but Ice blew right past the matter like it was as simple as saying he had to water the plants or feed the dog, “and then I’ll be right back.”
“Sorry,” Mav mumbled. “I should—I mean, I can deal with the mess. I—” He hissed through his teeth at another wave of nausea as it crested and then ebbed away.
“Don’t be stupid,” Ice said. The words were harsh, but his voice wasn’t condescending, just firm. “You need to rest. I’ve got it covered.”
Mav was in no state to protest—he wouldn’t be able to get up and tidy up even if Ice allowed it—but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to. Ice’s expression, though, a mix of determined and sympathetic and concerned, had him swallowing any objections. Instead, he just nodded meekly and watched Ice disappear into the other room.
He tried to stay alert and aware until Ice returned, but his hour-long nap on the bathroom floor hadn’t staved off any of his bone-deep exhaustion; in fact, it seemed to have exacerbated the tiredness oozing sluggishly through his veins, and the blanket he was wrapped in was really damn soft. Almost against his will, he felt himself drifting off into cottony unawareness. The pain seemed to come through more dully now, an echo instead of a screech.
Faintly, before he dropped off entirely, he felt a gentle press of lips against his temple and a gravelly whisper as fingers pushed sweaty hair away from his temples.
“Mój piękny chłopak.”
My beautiful boy.